A Sister’s Warning to Princess Charlotte

Keesha Beckford

Dear Princess Charlotte,

I saw the photos your mom, I mean mum, took of you with your big brother. The world is smitten, thinking Prince George is the loving older brother already revealing himself as your adoring protector and best friend. From one little sister with a brother less than two years older to another, I cry bullspit, I mean bollocks.

Princess Charlotte, DO NOT BE FOOLED! DO NOT be lulled into a sense of complacency by those chubby cheeks and innocent grins. You are so close in age that your brother will always see you as the competition, having maliciously and prematurely stolen his place as the sole recipient of the rays of light that are your parents’ devotion. I guarantee you your brother’s regal blood is roiling with rage. Although you are only two weeks old, it is never too early to be vigilant. Or to consider clawing a fellow’s face like a deranged kitten.

Your brother simply cannot be trusted. Even your lovely parents cannot be fully aware of the evil lurking within your sibling’s immature, yet devious and diabolical mind. I am sure your parents have nannies and servants buzzing around, so they aren’t as exhausted as my parents, who raised my brother and me in a flat with only their addled minds and the walls to look after us, but still.

Princess Charlotte, let me share my story. When I was but one day old, my parents brought my brother, who, for the rest of this missive shall be referred to as Poopyface, into the hospital room where I was being fed at the breast of my dear mother. I cannot be sure what he was expecting to see, for surely my parents had prepared him for my arrival, but upon seeing me his face shattered into shards of horror, as though my mother had been nursing a shrunken Winston Churchill. Proving himself to be a self-centered maniac right from the get-go, Poopyface had the nerve to squeeze his arse onto my mother’s lap, even though it was clear that I so desperately needed affection and sustenance, the very things to which he’d had plentiful access for 18 months prior.

I immediately knew I had to be on high alert. My suspicions were correct, as but a few weeks later the words, “Don’t feed her,” actually passed that a-hole’s lips!

The child never let me have a moment’s peace. I’d be bobbing away in my bouncy seat, minding my own business, and Poopyface would be scheming nearby, or else taking my paci out of my mouth, or shoving it in my mouth as though trying to choke me. Later, no matter what I picked up to play with or eat, he savagely ripped from my hands. I had no choice but to howl, which caused my sleep-deprived parents to shout at him, only making him resent me more. Now, of course, the screaming is probably not an issue for you, as your mother is Cinderella post the glass slipper reunion while mine is perpetually Cruella de Vil on an acid flashback, but I just wanted to give you some perspective.

Honestly, the boy has made my young life a living hell. I cannot tell you how many times I have, racked with sobs, pleaded with him, “Why must you treat me with such heartless cruelty? What have I ever done to you?” I cannot overstate the number of times I’ve prayed he’d be sucked down under the pavement to become a sewer rat buffet; I cannot overstate the number of times I have informed this tyrant of my right to exist, passionately proclaiming, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere!” I realize that the peasant/colonial/revolutionary references are completely useless for you, but I’m a mixed-race American — they totally work for me.

And the betrayal! When there’s no one else around, Poopyface befriends me readily. But as soon some other little chappie comes around I’m chopped liver. It sears my soul.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m living with a spy thriller villain. I can never let my guard down, you know? I’m this close to developing anxiety and trust issues. But on the plus side, Poopyface has kept me on my toes and made me a girl who doesn’t take any crap from blokes. Every now and then he and I totally bond, like when mommy yells like a nutjob. Someday Poopyface and I will surely be the best of friends, but in the meantime, I’m sleeping with one eye open, and I advise you to do the same.

With the deepest respect and regard for your emotional well-being and physical SAFETY,


A Little Sister in Chicago


Warning Princess Charlotte! Trouble is coming!

Read more on the FRONT PORCH

This post was written by Keesha Beckford exclusively for BonBon Break Media, LLC.

Before her two children re-choreographed her life, Keesha was a professional dancer who performed in the U.S. and in Europe. Today she teaches modern and jazz dance in the Chicago area. She is also the human cyclone behind the blog Mom’s New Stage. A multitasker at heart, she shows fierce skills at simultaneously writing, choreographing, checking Facebook and Pinterest updates, playing the role of a mother named Joan “Kumbaya” Crawford, and overcooking food. Keesha is one of the select contributing authors of In The Powder Room’s first anthology, You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth. Her writing has been featured on Mamapedia, The Huffington Post, in the New York Times bestselling anthology I Just Want to Pee Alone, and in the third book in the Pee Alone series, I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone. She was recently awarded a Voice of the Year Award for her Bonbon Break original piece Dear White Mom.